


Undimmed By Time, Unbound By Death

by MarinaForever



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Journey of Self Discovery, M/M, Mirror of Erised, Smoking, Suicide Attempts, cas has a dog, general sadness, post-series finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:32:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4330467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarinaForever/pseuds/MarinaForever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean Winchester's death in 2017, Castiel is filled with grief and loss. This is a story of the years that follow, and the struggles that Cas faces in the world as humanity slowly diminishes and falls away. </p><p>Then one day, he finds a mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undimmed By Time, Unbound By Death

**Author's Note:**

> Harry thought. Then he said slowly, ‘It shows us what we want… whatever we want.’
> 
> ‘Yes and no,’ said Dumbledore quietly. ‘it shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desires of our hearts. […] However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.’
> 
> —Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone  
> Chapter Twelve, The Mirror of Erised

_**May 2nd, 2017** _

This was the day the world was to fall.

It had not been the first time it had avoided that fate. Many times it had dodged the gunfire, the word apocalypse etched finely alongside the bullet. Sometimes the bullet made its mark, and the world would choke and sputter on its own blood, heart not too sure on how to function with a broken chunk of lead strung through it. But the world never died. The world never ceased breathing, never ceased turning, as though it refused to come quietly into Death’s gentle embrace.

Here it stands. Scarred, bloody, plenty of battle wounds to last. But still here, without a doubt.

And Castiel stands right along with it. The ground seems to shake beneath his feet, and the winds seems to tear into his hair and at his watering eyes and at his wrecked throat. The dirt strikes his knees, a filthy, battered trench coat hanging loose around his shoulders, smoke caught in the fabric. The sky is a mix of grey and red. There’s a man lying in the dirt close to him, too close, and Castiel reaches out and pulls him closer, managing to settle the man’s head in his lap. His ash covered fingers trail through dirty blond hair.

It was an interesting anomaly, an odd observation. Many people mistake it for brown, but Cas knew. Cas knew that if the man stood in the sunlight, a coy smile playing on his lips in a light summer evening, you could still see the blond reflecting back. A reminder of simpler days.

Blood is drying on those lips he loves, caught and matted in that blond hair he loves, and Cas can feel the tears burning and his throat closing up, whispering, “Dean. Dean, wake up. Wake up, Dean. It’s over. It’s all over. Wake up.”

And Dean’s eyes flutter open, and that damn cocky smile weakly shines as filthy grey snow makes its descent, littering the grass around them. The smile soon disappears behind a wave of coughing and blood comes up with the sound, and Castiel makes an effort to wipe it away with the sleeve of his coat, heart growing heavier by the second. Because its painful watching Death take its course, and all you can do is sit there. The world is collapsing, starting with the lungs.

“Did we do it?” Dean asks. His voice is weak, mouth barely able to form the words. Dean repeats the question, and Cas can’t help but to let the tears spill, trying his best to stifle the want to completely fall apart.

“Yes,” he croaks, and his image of Dean is blurring, and small salty beads of water drip down his cheeks with every blink, and he can’t stop them now. “Yes.” He forces a short and pained laugh. “Dean Winchester, you saved the world. You and Sam saved the world…”

And Dean chuckles, teeth stained an awful red. He finds Castiel’s hand and clings tightly to it, holding it close to his chest.

“Awesome,” he grunts, and he beams from ear to ear. “Fucking awesome.”

Cas leans down, pressing the softest kiss he can against those lips he loves, those lips he adores so much, ignoring the sharp metallic taste that follows. Even softer, he repeats the motion with Dean’s eyelids, shielding the vibrant green colour that had captured him long ago, and set a caged bird free.

“We did good,” Dean sputters.

“Yeah,” Cas nods, trying to breathe, trying to think. “Yeah, we did good.”

Dean laughs, and then the coughing returns, more forceful this time, and his fingers squeeze Cas’ so tight that Cas feels Dean might break them. He doesn’t care, though. Cas is too numb to care.

The coughing subsides, and the broken breaths come back along, Dean’s chest shaking like an earthquake, forehead lined with sweat. The sun is setting fast, somewhere, over a gore stained horizon. It feels like Hell; hot, hopeless, dry. Torturous.

Cas takes the hand that had been stroking Dean’s hair and places it on the man’s forehead, which Dean slaps away, to Castiel’s surprise.

“Don’t. Don’t.”

“Dean—”

“It’s my time to go,” Dean wheezes, “It’s my time to go, Cas. I want to go…”

Cas shakes his head. “What about Sam?” he protests, his voice growing higher in pitch and the tears streaming faster, a river that wouldn’t be contained. “What about me, Dean? Please. Please let me heal you, Dean, you can’t just leave us here like this…”

Dean reaches up, allowing his hand to cup Castiel’s cheek, a thumb rolling over the new stubble. He smiles again. “Just carry on,” he whispers, “Keep walking. Don’t stop, don’t look behind you. Just carry on, carry on, carry on…”

His words fade, and he closes his eyes, and Cas feels panic spike in his chest, but before he can call out for Dean once more, Dean mutters quietly, weakly, “It’s Sammy’s birthday today.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees. “Yes, it is.”

The hand from his face falls, and Cas grabs for it, pulling Dean closer to him, so Dean’s head rests on his shoulder now, his soft breathing heavy against Cas’ neck.

And he hears it. Faintly, he hears it.

“I love you, Cas.”

And he whispers back, “I love you, Dean.” Wanting to shout out a million more things along with it. Wanting to cry out _please don’t leave me_ until his tongue cracks and his voice runs hoarse.

The world has fallen, and Castiel tightens his grip on it. A frail body of a broken man. A righteous man, who saved this godforsaken place.

The earth falls silent.

 

 

_**May 3rd, 2017** _

Sam finds Cas the next morning, his brother’s limp body in the angel’s arms, unmoving, and it takes a few minutes to coax Cas to pass Dean over to him.

They burn the body together. The traditional hunters funeral. The way Dean would have wanted it.

Cas feels nothing as he watches the flames rise higher and higher, flushing his face with heat. There’s a flashback of when that heat and warmth had been in his cheeks for different reasons. The first time he and Dean linked hands. The first time they kissed. The first time an I love you tumbled from their lips and the first time their shaky hands had trailed all over one another under a catastrophe of white sheets. Now it was as if that heat were betraying him. Eating him alive.

Sam stands beside him, hands in his jacket pocket. His wounds he let Cas heal, but the grief that showed was one that Cas could not simply wipe away. Yesterday he had turned thirty four, but sadness ages you. An old man stands beside Castiel, in front of burning flames. An old man who has witnessed too much war. Just like his brother. Ultimately, the family business.

Even long after the flames had sputtered out, Cas stands close to the ashes. He had sent Sam back to the bunker to get some rest. The boy needed it. And Cas needed the company of himself, if only for a while.

And for the first time since losing Dean, he screams. Had there been any angels left to hear him, they would have all been rendered deaf, with the cries, over and over and over again, until Castiel falls to his knees, voiceless, a shipwreck tossed in the hurricane.

_Dean Winchester is dead._

 

**_May 17th, 2017_ **

Cas hasn’t spoken much in the past two weeks. Neither of them have spoken much at all, because life has become rather numb. A dense burden they both carried. They haven’t been on a hunt in what felt like forever. The bunker sits in an eerie silence.

Today Sam came into Cas’ bedroom, to find him sitting on the edge of an unmade bed, hair askew, still clothed in only a pair of boxers and an old Led Zeppelin T-shirt, one with holes in the armpits and a few splits here and there. One Sam recognized belonged to Dean. Empty coffee mugs scatter the carpet floor, a few brown bottles here and there.

Sam calls out, and Cas reluctantly turns, revealing the dark circles around his eyes, icy blue mixing heavily with dark crimson. _He hasn’t slept because of the nightmares_ , Sam tells himself, remembering being startled awake and fumbling for his pistol in the dark only to recognize the sounds were only Cas’ whimpers. He hasn’t shaved, and Sam notices the dull red marks up and down Cas’ arms. Not cuts, no. But scratches. In some places his nails had broken the skin.

Sam swallows, seats himself on the bed, and slings an arm around Cas’ shoulders. Cas starts to cry.

“I’m sorry.”

And that could be sorry for a million things. _I’m sorry about Dean. I’m sorry about your brother. I’m sorry that I didn’t heal him, that I didn’t just disobey him and save him like he saved the world. I’m sorry he’s gone. I’m sorry I’m in love with him, and it’s tearing at me from my insides. I’m sorry I haven’t been a good friend. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

Sam tosses that all aside. “It’s alright.”

They spend the rest of the day getting Cas cleaned up, straightening his room and washing his bedsheets, and for the first time in what seemed to be a long time, they ate dinner together. Quietly, with the TV on in the background, an episode of _Star Trek_ running. They discover that the company of one another, even in the darkest of times, is better than the company of none.

 

**_September 18th, 2017_ **

Cas goes for a walk that day. The air is starting to fall colder, the winds were beginning to bite. His trench coat, although still hanging up in the back of his closet, no longer keeps him warm. Neither does the grace that flows in his veins, for that matter. Instead a ragged and beaten jacket embraces him, hands stuck inside the pockets. Somedays, if he concentrated hard enough, it would still smell like split whiskey and baking apple pie. Some colourful leaves dance pass him, the trees becoming barren around him.

It’s a nice day. Dean would have liked it. Would’ve been on this walk with him. After all, today marked nine years.

Nine damn years. All of them which Castiel would have gladly taken back, if just to see Dean’s face again.

Sam left the bunker about two months ago. It had saddened Cas, of course, but he knew why Sam wanted to leave. He wanted that normal life he’s always dreamed of, and Cas didn’t blame him. He saved the world. He deserved some kind of reward for it. Retiring from hunting seemed like a pretty good way to start.

Although Sam has lived a life where he was forced into being a fighter, that is not who he was cut out to be. Dean was always the fighter. Sam was naturally a lover. Castiel didn’t know where he fell on the spectrum, and supposed he was somewhere smack dab in the centre.

 

 

_**December 24th, 2020** _

Sam and his girlfriend (her name is Rebecca, and she has a lovely smile that warms Castiel’s heart) have him over for Christmas that year. Sam and Cas would exchange texts a few times a month, Cas updating him on some easier hunts to keep him occupied, and Sam with his day to day life. Dinner is wonderful, and a light snowfall is taking place outside the warm house. A fire dances in the brick fire place. Different coloured lights shine all down the street, like the millions of stars that Cas admires so deeply. This is the last time Sam and Cas will meet like brothers. The last time they meet at all.

Before Cas can walk out the door, face flushed from the wood and wine, Sam pulls him aside, handing him a package wrapped in brown paper.

Cas chuckles. “I thought we agreed on no gifts,” and Sam just shrugs.

“Open it,” he says, with a soft smile.

Cas does. Slowly. And when the paper falls away to the ground, his heart nearly stops. It’s a wooden picture frame, with a tinted golden brown furnish. Three men are in the picture in particular, one face he recognized as his own, leaning much too close to Dean. Dean with a beer lazily in his hand, Sam on his opposite side. None of them are looking at the camera, but rather towards one another, all with joyous expressions.

“Charlie took that,” Sam explains, watching the expression on Cas’ face turn into a mix of something of utter delight and sadness and love, watching Cas trace the photo gently with the bare tip of his finger. “When you got your grace back. I, uh, I found it in her camera when I was cleaning my things out of the bunker. Thought you might like to have it.”

“Sam, I… I don’t know what to say…” Cas whispers, trying to blink away the oncoming tears. He wouldn’t cry on Christmas. Christmas was supposed to be a happy time, a wonderful time. It’s just that Castiel is happy, in this moment. Happier than he’s been in months.

“ _Thank you_ would probably be a good place to start,” Sam jokes, and they laugh together before Cas pulls the taller man into a tight hug.

“Thank you,” he says. “This is more than I could ever ask for.”

Sam lets go first, clasping Castiel’s shoulder and gives it a brief squeeze. “Come and visit soon, Cas.”

Cas nods, his grin like the sun. He throws a kind wave at Rebecca and she smiles and waves back. “Goodbye, Sam.” he says, after a second or two, and he walks out the door, the snow colliding with his dark hair, and he looks up.

“Merry Christmas, Dean,” he mutters to the sky.

He gets into the drivers seat of the Impala, and after these past three years it still feels alien to him. It’s never felt right for him to drive this old thing. But it feels like home. That aged leather smell, the memories it held all this time, the magnificent roar it still gave. He wasn’t willing to let it go. It’s one of the last pieces of Dean he has left.

Cas gently lays the picture in the passenger seat, and every now and then as the drive back to the bunker carries on, he would glance back at it, and smile.

It’s the last time they speak.

 

_**January 5th, 2021** _

He decides to put a message out on the angel radio. It’s beens years since he’s last seen or heard from any of his brothers and sisters, and while he’s sure they’re all dead, he gives it a try anyways.

He never gets a response.

 

**_April 30th, 2021_ **

There’s a rogue spirit causing trouble in California, so Cas drives down to go investigate. He’s slightly hesitant about it, at first, remembering his last hunt alone the previous month had been with a gang of vampires and plenty of new scars, one white and prominent along the side of his neck, but in the end he goes. The spirit belonged to an old black woman who was haunting people that had ridiculed her and humiliated her while they were in their teens.

He’s conducing an interview in town with an officer, displaying his fake badge, dressed finely in his FBI suit, gathering whatever information he can, and that’s when he sees him. There’s a man a few paces away, leaning casually on the post office building. Green eyes. Dirty blond hair.

Cas just gapes at him, watches as the man disappears into an alley, out of site. Cas gives a quick “Excuse me for a moment,” to his interviewee, and walks in a fast pace towards the alley.

There’s no one there, of course. It was the third hallucination, and Cas hates that every time they happened, he wanted nothing more than to believe them.

One night later and he finds the old woman’s bones in the local cemetery, giving them a good salt and burn. It’s the same night he picks up a pack of cigarettes from the gas station, and lights his first.

 

_**April 19th, 2022** _

He attends Sam’s wedding, making himself invisible to the human eye. It’s a beautiful ceremony, and even though they can’t hear him, he claps when they kiss and when Sam picks Rebecca up and swings her around. He hopes Dean is watching from somewhere.

He leaves a wedding gift at the table before he departs, messy handwriting scrawled on the packaging.

_For Sam & Rebecca. May your love be eternal. —Castiel _

Cas knows that when Sam goes to open it and reads it, his eyes fly around, searching for blue and dark hair and quirky smile. His search comes to no avail.

 

**_May 2nd, 2028_ **

It’s been more than ten years since Dean has passed.

Cas visits the place where he and Sam buried the ashes, not far from the Winchester's own mother in Lawrence. Cas seats himself at the foot of the grave, placing a few daisies close to the stone.

“Hello, Dean,” he tells it. He stays there a long while, just in silence, occasionally pulling out a cigarette and holding it between his teeth. It remains unlit for the rest of his visit. The picture frame sits beside him.

Cas comes back every year until there’s nothing more of that headstone, until the name _DEAN WINCHESTER_ fades away with time. Cas continues his visits even long after that.

 

_**February 9th, 2055** _

Sam died today, at age 77. He went good, peacefully in his sleep, dreaming about fireworks on the fourth of July years and years ago. Castiel tried killing himself that night.

 

_**February 14th, 2055** _

Cas attends the funeral, this time fully visible in the cemetery. No one recognizes him, despite him not having aged a single day. When people greet him and ask him how he knew Mr. Winchester (Rebecca being one, no familiarity of him crossing her face), he just smiles and replies, “My name is Jimmy Novak. I was an old friend.” Nothing more. He stands near the back of the crowd. Halfway through the service, he feels a small tug on his pant leg, and he looks down.

A small child with messy hair, only about knee high, stands there, thumb stuck in his mouth with large hazel eyes staring up at him.

Castiel smiles and takes a knee next to him.

“Hey, there little man,” he says to the boy in a quiet voice, as to not disrupt what the priest was saying. He ruffled the boys hair and get giggles in response, and Castiel’s smile only grows wider. He hoists the child up so he could see beyond the heads of all the adults as they begin to lower the coffin into the grave. Cas swallows, hard. Sam did it. He escaped the life he hated so much, and now look at him. Being buried with a full body, not burning in the woods somewhere.

_Goodbye, Sam._

And then it hits him that both brothers are gone, and his throat closes up, and he starts to cry. It doesn’t last very long. Chubby fingers are ravelling in his hair, pulling at his hair, pulling for his attention.

“Why are they putting Grandpa in the ground?” the child asks quietly. “Why are you sad? You’re making me sad too.” And when Cas meets the child’s eyes his stomach drops with guilt, because he’s not the only one shedding tears.

Cas looks at the little boy, and tries to smile. “Because,” he says, “Grandpa was a good man. And now he’s going to sleep for a while.”

“Is he going to wake up?” the boy questions, and Cas shakes his head.

“No. But there’ll come a day when you’ll see him again.”

“How do you know that?”

And before Cas can open up his mouth to answer, because he does know and he knows why, a woman’s voice arises.

“Dean? Dean, where are you, buddy?”

Cas’ eyes flare up, breath catching at the name. He’s thrown off by the sound, because when was the last time anyone but himself had said that name? When was the last time—

“There you are,” came that voice again, much closer now, and Castiel blinks and there she is, swooping the child from his hold. She’s shorter than he is, long dark hair tied up in a bun. She appears to be around in her mid thirties somewhere, in a black dress with long sleeves. She possesses tried brown eyes that look so damn familiar, and he knows them. God, he knows them…

“I’m sorry,” the woman says, and Cas snaps back out of his trance, “He tends to run off and be a little bothersome to strangers.” She turns to the boy, who by know Cas presumes is her son. “Isn’t that right, Dean?”

There’s no scold to her words, but a playful sort of tone, and Dean laughs, tears gone now. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she says, holding out her free hand while balancing Dean against her shoulder. Cas takes it, slowly, cautiously. She laughs. “Oh, c’mon. I won’t bite. What’s your name?”

There’s something about those eyes of hers that makes him so desperately want to spill everything. Not just his name. Not just the fact he was an angel. But everything.

He doesn’t.

“Jimmy Novak,” he replies. “How about yours?”

She smiles, and repeats it. “Jimmy Novak. That’s a nice name.”

“Well, I didn’t choose it,” he scoffs lightheartedly.

The woman shrugs her shoulders. “Well, I didn’t choose to be named Castiel, either, but here I am. Stuck with it, but I don’t mind.”

Castiel’s mouth drops open, and suddenly he forgets how to breathe. “…Excuse me?”

“That’s my name,” the woman replies, as if it were the most simple thing in the whole world. “Castiel Mary Harrison. Well, most of my friends shorten it to Cassie, or just—”

 _“Cas,”_ Cas interjects. He doesn’t know what to say next, but thankfully, she does.

“Yeah,” she states, cocking her head curiously to the side. “Yeah. But only Dad seemed to call me that…”

Then, it hits him. “Sam Winchester was your father?”

Cassie nods, those eyes that have the same gleam and the same rich colour as Sam’s beginning to look exhausted once again.

“That’s an odd name,” Cas comments. A silence had been building between them, and although he found it comfortable, there was a need to shatter it. "But unique. Lovely."

“Dad used to tell me all the time I was named after an angel,” she laughs, Dean laughing along with her. “And I’m wondering if he’ll get to meet that one up there.”

 _Oh, little one,_ Cas can’t help but to think, _He already has. And now you’ve met him too._

 

—

 

The reception takes place at their house, a little walk away. Cas meets Cassie’s husband, Josh, who is a kind and loving soul, a good father to their only child. He has a gentle personality, but Cas soon discovers that Josh very much likes classic rock, way back, and it was Sam who got him into AC/DC, Queen, and Zeppelin.

Cas wanted to laugh. Dean would’ve liked Josh to the moon and back. He imagined the brothers somewhere now, Dean clapping Sam on the shoulder, smiling. Together at long last. _You did good,_ he could imagine Dean saying. _We both did pretty good._

The reception was dull, like they always were. Quiet, grey. Not meaningless, of course not, but sad all the same. Sad and weighted.

For the most part, Cas kept to the Harrison’s. They were enjoyable people, and little Dean appeared to have taken a certain liking to him, always demanding that Cas hold him. He felt bad for lying to them about his name, for the kindness they were giving him, but he knew it was for the best. It would only cause confusing and anger and tears if they knew.

Josh is an elementary school teacher, Cassie does work in accounting, and Dean would be going into kindergarden next September. He’s four. Cas asks why they chose to name their son _Dean_.

“Dad would tell me all these stories about him,” she says quietly, a cup of coffee in her hand. “That was the name of his brother. He was the hero of my childhood. Always doing something extraordinary, like saving the world and stopping the apocalypse.” She stops to chuckle. “There was one that I always liked, where Dean wanted to die because he thought he was evil, but Dad wouldn’t let him, wouldn’t stop believing that Dean was a good man. It was a crazy story, but instead of killing Dad, like he was supposed to, he killed Death himself. I found it rather funny that—Jimmy, are you okay?”

Cas had to excuse himself from the conversation after that point, where he locked himself in the bathroom and ran the tap to muffle his choked sobs.

When he comes back, he apologizes again, to which Josh and Cassie forgive him for in a split second.

“So, Jimmy,” Josh starts the conversation, “How did you know Sam?”

Cas takes a deep breath. _Oh, where to begin?_ hurls around in his mind. _Where to begin?_

“When I was younger,” is the beginning, where he chooses is the beginning, “much younger, I was an incredibly lost child. Lost, not sure who I was. Scared.” He emits a light chuckle. “An abandoned kid with no one to direct him through life. Until these two men come along, and they take me under their wing. And I was a brat at first. Truly, I was. I didn’t have any desire for them to lead me. The truth is, they taught me how to live. How to really live. To write my own ending.”

A butchered version of the truth, but close enough that it’s not a lie. Cassie asks if Cas would like to stay with them for a few nights, and after a moment of thinking it over, Cas accepts.

 

 

_**February 16th, 2055** _

Cas babysits Dean while Josh and Cassie are at work. Cas finds it easy enough. Dean is quiet, easily entertained, and likes to draw. Today they were seated on the floor of the Harrison’s living room, a two hundred some piece puzzle laid out in front of them. It was then that Dean asked an odd question.

“Jimmy?”

“Yes?”

“Are you an angel?”

Cas isn’t sure how to respond to that, at first. It catches him completely off guard.

 _Angel_. When was the last time someone asked him that? Called him that?

Then he remembers. Green eyes, dirty blond hair, a smirk that rocked mountains and shook the ground. The way that mouth would form the word and let it flow like rivers.

 _Angel_.

Cas put down the puzzle piece he has been turning over in his fingers for the past two minutes. “What made you think that, Dean?”

The boy shrugs. “I don’t know,” he admits, and Cas frowns at him. “Mommy hasn’t cried about Grandpa since you came along. And Daddy finally goes to bed. They smile more.” His little bright eyes meet Cas’, and the boy grins. “Don’t angels do that? Make everything better?”

Cas smiles back at him, a sad glow in the blue. “Yes,” he answers, “Angels do their best to fix things. But I’m not an angel,” he sighs. _Not anymore._

“Why? What happened?” Dean questions, and Cas almost slaps himself for letting his train of thought slip out of his mouth so carelessly.

But Dean is a child. A child with an ever expanding mind. He knows things, things that adults just don't know or understand.

Cas gently touches a middle and a fore finger to the boy’s forehead, and instinctively Dean closes his eyes.

The first image Cas sends out is a massive explosion. There’s bright lights, colours everywhere. Not a sound, not a whisper. Just the universe coming to life.

Next, rather abruptly, there’s a beach. The sky is dull, the waves moving in graceful motions. A grey fish flops onto the beach. Then the rise and fall of empires. Wars pass in a flash, kings and queens and rulers and presidents and so much time flies by.

And then the scene changes.

There are two men, driving an old and beaten car. Music is playing, and it’s nighttime, with a dark road ahead. The scene cuts to them sitting on the hood of the car, staring up at the stars, each with a beer in hand.

“Who are they?” Dean says, his voice quiet, and Cas chuckles.

“They’re the men who saved the world.”

He shows the breaking of the sixty-six seals, the rise of Lucifer.

“They are the men who broke all the rules, wouldn’t be controlled by fate. Brothers through time and time again would go to hell and back for one another.”

He shows Dean making a deal for Sam’s soul, and Sam jumping into the Cage.

“They taught me what it was like to be human.”

Green eyes. Laughter. Whiskey. Fingers interlocking. Kisses in the dark. Countless tears.

“And I fell in love,” Cas whispers.

He draws his hand back, and Dean opens his eyes, so wide that Cas was afraid they might burst. But the child smiles. They finish their puzzle, the occasional question popping up from Dean (“Why is the sky blue? What kind of car did they drive? Are they in heaven?”, etc) with Cas answering as many of them as he possibly can. It’s a marvellous moment.

Cas leaves the Harrison’s that night while the family sleeps, flinching as the Impala roars to life across the street. He gives the house one last look, and ames himself promise that he would check up on the boy from time to time.

Maybe it was time he got back into the habit of watching humanity, protecting it, rather than just try and be a part of it. After all, he’s an angel. What’s his purpose if he has no one to save?

 

 

_**August 5th, 2055** _

It’s only five months later that Dean Harrison is struck by a car and killed.

Cas had been watching over him. Putting his wings back into action to visit the kid. He receives a sharp pain in his head while driving to Oregon for a case and almost crashes the Impala into the ditch. Immediately he flies to the Harrison’s and his heart comes to a stop.

It has started to rain, the sky looking as broken as Cas felt. There’s already a reaper standing over the body. There’s blood. So much blood that it mixes in with the rainwater and flows off into the gutter. The killer vehicle is stopped, the driver out kneeling next to the dying child, cellphone to his ear and 911 on the line. And off to the side, on the sidewalk, shaking and crying, is none other than the little Dean’s spirit.

The reaper takes the form of a young man with flaming ginger hair and a kind face, but all Castiel can do is scream at him. _Leave the boy alone! He’s under my protection! Please, let me heal him, let me heal him—_

_(i can’t do this again not like this)_

But the reaper only shakes his head. _You have to let him go, Castiel. He was always destined to die this way. Just like Dean Winchester was destined to die in that war, and Sam Winchester was destined to die in peace, and like one day you might be destined to die._

 _Bite me,_ Castiel snarls. However, the reaper actually looks sympathetic towards the angel.

_I’m sorry, my friend. There’s just nothing I can allow you to do. Let him go._

_Let me take him to heaven, at the very least,_ Cas begs, _He knows me, he’ll go with me Please, I owe him that. I should’ve been with him, I should’ve saved him—_

 _Castiel,_ the reaper interrupts, _you and I both know very well that you’ve been locked out of heaven’s doors. Even if we wanted to let you in, we can’t. It’s an eternal ban over your head. I’m sorry. I’ll take Dean—_

_Please, don’t do this…_

_Rewriting destiny is not something us reapers take pride in._

And like that, he was gone. Dean’s spirit as well, just as Cassie and Josh run outside their house and cries of loss escape them.

Castiel attempts to drink himself to death that night, with no success.

 

 

_**October 17th, 2109** _

The house is essentially in the middle of nowhere, and it appears to be more of a shack than a house, nothing but a large cornfield growing behind it for two miles. But upon double checking the address, he found he was in the right place. In a demolished town called Lawrence.

Just a few minutes before he had gone to visit Dean’s grave before coming here, only to find that the cemetery had been long gone for years, and everybody in it. It saddened him deeply, but didn’t surprise him all that much. It had been bound to happen one of these days. His foot nudges down the kickstand of the motorcycle, helmet balancing on the seat. There’s a moment of brief hesitation before he marches up the walkway.

Cas gives the edge of the screen door two raps with his knuckles, waiting patiently. A dog barks somewhere, startling him. He hasn’t heard a dog in thirty five years, not since before the Bad War started. It’s a German Shepard, and it greets him from behind the screen, a wide grin on its mouth following each hearty _woof_.

Given a minute, the door opened, and there stands a girl, grabbing tight of the dog’s collar, making him sit. It’s barking subsides. She’s young, age somewhere close to twenty, and oddly bright red hair tied back. Castiel doesn’t voice it out loud, but the colour reminds him of fire engines. Dressed in a tank-top and basketball shorts with thick black rimmed glasses around determined brown eyes. It’s awfully hot for October.

She gives Castiel a once over, and he shifts a bit uncomfortably, realizing that he looks like the world came and ran him over. Hair askew, clothes torn, more scratches running up and down his arms (and God did he ever try to stop with the scratching), the loose makeshift bandage around his elbow. He notices the empty coffee mug she holds in one hand.

“Can I help you?”

Cas swallows. She’s young, but there’s something intimidating about her, in the way she talked. “Would you happen to be E. A. Kindle?”

The girl nods. “Got that right.” A slight southern drawl. She holds out her hand, and he takes it, shaking her firm grip. “Nice to meet you, Castiel.”

He tries not to be too bothered by how easily she gets his name. After all, she is a psychic. It’s what she was born to do.

“C’mon, let’s go have a chat.”

Her small living room consists of two moth eaten couches and a small coffee table set between them, where a large paperback book resides and a layer of dust surrounding it. They sit across from each other, the Shepard lying on the floor next to her feet, panting, still grinning.

“Coffee or tea?” Kindle asks, but Castiel just shakes his head. His hand wavers towards the back pocket of his jeans when she snaps, “And don’t you dare think about smoking in here. The last bit of shit I need around here is my house burning down. Or lung cancer,” she adds with some consideration.

He swears he hears her mutter “freaking addict” as she steps out of the room for a moment, returning with a glass of water and setting it down in front of him, accompanied by a plate of biscuit cookies. Her coffee mug is refilled.

“So,” Kindle starts, “Do you want to tell me your sob story or are we just gonna sit here all day in silence like fools?”

“You’re not just going to search my mind and pull the information from there?”

Kindle shrugs. “Of course I could. I’m a psychic. But I choose not to. Otherwise that would just be privacy invasion.”

Cas smiles, and takes the water. “It’d make me more comfortable if you told me somethings about yourself first,” he says quietly, “so I know who I’m talking to.”

The girl nods. “I suppose that’s fair.” She plucks a cookie off the platter, leans back in her couch, and proceeds by taking a long drag of her coffee. Castiel watches as steam floats out from the hot drink’s surface. “What would you like to know?”

He learns that her full name is Exodus Atticus Kindle. When she had friends, they called her by her middle name. She was nineteen. Never knew her parents, and she assumes they’re dead. A psychic named Josephine Kindle had raised her and passed away a little more than two years ago. She’s been living alone ever since, with the occasional visit of someone searching for solace for a few bucks. She lives off the corn and whatever she grows in her garden year round, since it refuses to snow in Lawrence the sun doesn’t seem to want to go back down. The dog’s named Cujo, and Castiel chuckles upon hearing it.

“King fans?” he asks.

“Very much,” Atticus says. “Jose has a wide collection. Whatever wasn’t burned before the Bad War that she could get a hold of. Been making my way through _The Stand_ myself,” she notes, gesturing to the thick paperback.

 _“Blessed are the meek,”_ Castiel quotes.

 _“For they shall inherit the earth,”_ Atticus finishes. “Mathew 5:5. I guess King wasn’t so insane after all, even though he wrote the strangest things. Perhaps he was psychic, too. The world’s practically dead, at this point. And here we are. Running this town.” A sigh. “Inheriting this broken earth.”

And then they get into Castiel’s story. And he tells her everything.

The events of 2017. The fall of Crowley, the rise of the witch’s regime. The Slaughterhouse of the Angels by Rowena’s command, how she planned to destroy most of the world. How Sam and Dean had stopped her, slammed Hell’s Gates once and for all, and saved it. Dean’s death and the years that followed, the hallucinations included (although those had finally faded after some time). The picture Sam had gotten him for Christmas, the frame now shattered and the photograph folded tightly away in his jacket pocket, the arms securely tied round his waist. Sam’s family, Sam’s death. His first attempt. How Sam had named his daughter after Cas, who had named her own son after Dean. Dean Harrison’s death. His second attempt. Third attempt. After quite sometime he realized he couldn’t die, his grace wouldn’t allow it. So he tried to dull his mind in parties, senseless drinking. Drug injections. Sex.

_(whatever dean did to numb the pain)_

That went on for a few years, until the Bad War. As it turned out, despite Castiel’s many calling’s and many attempts to reach out having failed before, there had in fact been other angels that had escaped the Slaughterhouse. They were so deep in hiding that they even switched off their angel radios. Yet with the war and the economy on a slippery slope, they were hunted for their wings, after an angel named Hashmal had gotten themselves caught in a bear trap—

His voice cracks there, and Cas takes a moment to regain himself. There’s a violent memory. Bloody, a phantom sharp pain between his shoulder blades. Atticus takes notices.

“Would it be easier if you showed me?” she asks calmly, and Castiel sighs and nods. The girl puts down her mug and leans in, gently taking the man’s face in her warm hands. They both close their eyes.

When he opens his again, there’s a pained look on Atticus’ face, and her face is a bit pale. “Ah,” is all she says before she removes her hands, returning them to the coffee instead.

He talks about losing the Impala, too, and sadness overwhelms him. A gang somewhere in Chicago had jumped him and took the keys, and Cas wanted to throw up at the idea of Dean’s baby being used for spare parts. He stole a motorcycle and drove it out to the sea six years ago, waded into the water with the waves crashing on him, hoping he would drown with no avail. Since then he’s been searching for someone to help him.

“Help you with what?”

Castiel swallows, hard, throat feeling dry and sick.

“I need someone to extract my grace.” It’s quiet for the next few minutes. Her expression remains unmoved. There’s a clock ticking somewhere in the next room. Cujo huffs a breath. Then Atticus decides to speak again.

“Please tell me you don’t expect me to do that.”

“I don’t know who else to go to,” Cas says, tears slowly making their way down his face, “Please tell me you know something, _anything_ —”

Atticus put her coffee on the table, close to the book, and leans foreword, balancing her elbows on her knees, hands clasped together as though in prayer. “Cas,” she says, in a soft and calm tone, “There’s a thing with grace extraction. It’s not really well known. I mean, I’ve read up on this stuff. I know the history with the angels, Jose was really into it and she taught me all she knew. It’s a torture art, created by the archangels themselves. But now, you’re the last one, as we know of. Some higher level demons had their hands on it, knew their was around a cruder version. But the Knights were either killed or locked in Hell, with the rest of them. It was very, very rare a human possessed that knowledge. Even rarer if they had the tools to do so.”

“What about Anna?” Castiel argues, “She said she ripped hers out.”

“Another angel did it for her,” Atticus counters, sounding tired. “And even that was risky. But if she were to do it herself, it would be like a human tearing their own heart out. It’s just… not possible.”

She removes her glasses with a heavy exhale, rubs her eyes. She exhales a mumble of kind and sad laughter. “Do you remember, about a century ago, that there was a psychic that looked at you and said all he could get out of you was colours?”

Cas nods, wondering where she’s going with it.

“Well, I look at you, and I still see those colours. Waves upon waves. Some a bit duller than perhaps they used to be, but they’re all still there. All collected in that head of yours.” She pauses, and smiles. “Like how you cut off contact with Sam because you wanted to give him a normal life. That’s blue. How you shared the history of the universe with Dean Harrison. Yellow. The lover you had for a few months back in ’87 before you left her—”

Cas’ head jolts up. He had avoided talking about that.

“—that’s scarlet. Bright and dangerous scarlet, and you left her because you hit her after she tried to take your needle away. And you thought she deserved better.”

Cas winces. “Yes,” he answers quietly.

“Yet she wasn’t the love of your life,” Atticus continues, “You cared for her, of course. She rocked you for a while before she got jealous of all that attention you were giving the heroin. But she isn’t who you would see…”

Her voice trails away, and Cas is left lingering on her last few words. _See where?_ he wants to ask, but she shakes her head.

“No. Of course it would be Dean Winchester. You know, your head just flared with pink when I mentioned his name.” She smirks. “You still love him, don’t you? Even after he’s been gone for ninety-two years, you still love him.”

Cas heaves a breath. His tongue feels very, very heavy, and behind his eyes are burning.

“Yes.”

Atticus takes another sip of coffee. “A love undimmed by time and unbound by death,” she comments. The last of her drink is finished, and she reaches down to pet Cujo.

“I can’t extract your grace, Castiel. I’m sorry. I don’t want to ruin or dash your hopes, but its extremely unlikely you’ll find someone with the skills or knowledge to do that. And trust me. I know how badly you just want it to end, how badly you just want it to go away, and I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want.” Her brow furrows, and then her face lights up slightly. She stands, walks to the bookshelf in the corner.

“There is one thing I can offer you, however.”

She pulls down an old black leather notebook, hastily wiping the thick layer of dust off the front cover before flipping it open, eyes scanning the pages. Her hand flies to grab a pen where she copies some information on a separate page. She tears it out, folds it into two, then hands it to Cas.

“It’s not much,” she stats, as he takes the paper from her, eyeing it carefully, “But it’s all I have. I wish I could’ve been of more help, but if there’s a God he didn’t bless me that way. Just in the mind reading business, that’s all.”

Cas asks, “What is it?” before tucking it into the pocket with the photograph, safe and secure, and Atticus just smiles softly.

“Something for when you’re reading to find peace. It won’t be for today. Or tomorrow. Maybe not for a long time. You gotta walk the earth for a while more. But when you’re ready, you’ll find the place.”

Cas lifts an eyebrow at her. “What am I supposed to do until then? Where am I supposed to go?”

“What are you supposed to _do?”_ Atticus repeats, before letting loose a laugh and rustling Cujo’s fur. “The first thing is that you get those fitly cigarettes and you toss them into a river or something. After that you take the last of your drug supply—you only have a few goes left on your stash—and you flush it. Don’t use it, or you’ll never stop, and those marks will be on your arms forever. And then, you do what any sane man would do.” Cujo barks happily. “Get yourself a dog.”

 

—

 

It’s dusk when he walks out of her house, and she watches him go from a chair on the porch. He turns back when he reaches the bike, and she waves, Cujo panting beside her in the heat.

He waves back.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, where the highway is taking him, but he follows it along anyways.

When he does find somewhere, what’s he going to do? And that’s when an echo of a voice rings through his head, and he can’t help but give a small smile towards it.

_You do what any sane man would do. Get yourself a dog._

 

_**October 18th, 2109** _

He pulls the bike over on a bridge, and takes out the smokes from his back pocket. The fag is already dangling from his lips and the lighter clicking in his hands when he remembers Atticus’ words, and removes it. Cas stares at it for a long time, before crumpling it in his fist.

He tosses it off the bridge into the rough river below and carries on his way. _Carry on, carry on…_

 

_**October 31st, 2109** _

He stops at a gas station to use the restroom, taking the remainder of his stash with him, and it takes an housing of coaxing himself to flush it. He buys a few cans of Coke from the till, fills up the tank, and goes.

 

_**January 18th, 2110** _

The dog is black and freezing out in the snow, and Castiel follows it a few blocks down the New York street, curious about it.

It has no collar, no tattoo on the inside of its ear, and licks his face when he leans down to pet him. Cas laughs and dusts the snow off the creature. He finds a bit of rope somewhere in a nearby alley, carefully creating a makeshift collar around its neck, not too tight or two loose. With the remainder of the rope he used as a leash.

He soon learned the leash wasn’t necessary. The dog seemed to tag along with him willingly enough.

He names her Missy.

 

_**June 26th, 2112** _

If Castiel ever met Exodus Atticus Kindle again, he would thank her for the advice.

He now owned a car, having ditched the bike after adopting Missy. A bit of a newer model then what he had been used to. She rode shotgun, head out the window, tongue out.

Maybe it was best that Cas lost the Impala a long time ago. Dean would’ve killed him for having a dog in the passenger’s seat. The red scratches were becoming nothing more than a mere and lazy memory.

 

_**April 4th, 2121** _

Missy passed away after knowing Cas for eleven years. She was in pain, and he could sense she was sick, fluid leaking into her lungs. So that night, after a good day of driving with the windows all the way down and a favourite band over the radio, Cas gently laid two fingers to her forehead, kissed the top of her furry head, and sent her off. Peacefully. There had been no fear when she left him, and he was happy that she was no longer in pain.

He found a nearby field and took some time to bury her, wrapping the body in a blanket before placing it in the hole with immense care.

He took a seat by the new grave, and he wept.

 

_**December, 2500** _

He thinks it’s Christmas today. It’s snowing, and the clouds are parted just enough for the stars to peek through. He pulls the photo from his warm winter jacket, and a few cold tears sting against his skin.

Over the course of all these centuries flying past like seconds, Cas had gotten the photo restored may times, and he sighed happily upon seeing it again.

Without it, he might have started to forget what they looked like. What Sam’s hair looked like, long and of need of a trim, or the way his lips turned up when he smiled in that quirky way. He might have forgotten the way Dean’s eyes crinkled when he laughed, or how rough his hands were, or the look of that blond hair that everyone mistook for brown. Cas had cropped himself out.

He misses them. So much.

He tucks the photo safely away again, and turns his eyes to the sky.

“I miss you, brother,” he whispers, “And I miss you, lover.”

Cas lets himself fall backwards, the snow catching him with a playful thump, and he starts moving his arms and legs, spreading and closing repeatedly, smiling the whole time. It’s the best Christmas he’s celebrated in a long time.

“Merry Christmas, Sam and Dean.”

 

_**November, 2554** _

The world is withering away, and it’s like Castiel is the only one who notices. Or, perhaps not so much the world. He would go for walks and encounter many species of wildlife. The deer graze on, the geese continue their flight patterns, rats still scourer in the sewers and every so often a cat will cross Cas’ path. The animals seem almost unaffected.

Perhaps it was just humanity that was slipping away.

 

_**March, 2557** _

The last time he sees a human being, and it’s a baby in a basket on the shore of a river, and that really startles him.

The bank is rather steep, and he almost breaks his ankle trying to reach it. The small child is crying when he picks it up, and he holds it close to subside its weeping. He sees it had brilliant green eyes, and he smiles sadly at the poor thing. He sings to it, and it falls silent.

How odd for a human baby to be floating in a river during this day and age. He’s not really sure what to do with it. So, he drives to the nearest town, and walks through it with the tiny one sleeping on his shoulder.

“Hello?” he calls out to no one, “Is anybody there?”

Nobody came to his calls. A large part of Cas isn’t surprised. The place looks overrun, most of the houses destroyed and torn away. But he doesn’t give up hope just yet. Keeps wandering, asking the same question that he’s been asking for years.

_Is there anybody out there._

He gets lucky when an old woman opens her door at his calls, and he goes to meet her. He explains the situation. _I just found them on the river bank. They need a home. I can’t take care of them._

The old lady, for whatever reason, agrees. She asks Castiel to stay with them, and he shakes his head. However, he agrees on accompanying her for one meal before he’s off. She cooks up a strange fish with an awful sort of taste, but Cas eats it anyways. She has potatoes as well, and that fills him just fine. The baby was sleeping on a cot in the kitchen.

When he goes to leave to head back to his car, walking a few paces from the old shack, the woman calls out, “You found them! The baby! I don’t know what to name it! What should I name it?”

And Castiel’s voice caught in his throat. But he smiles. Suddenly, he sprints back up to the door, and places the smallest of kisses on the baby’s forehead, quickly muttering a blessing to them.

_(him)_

“Dean,” he says quietly, “Name him Dean for me.”

That’s the last time he sees a human soul.

 

 

_**2656** _

Humanity has fallen.

Castiel is alone.

 

_**Unknown** _

Somehow, that slip of paper managed to survived all this. And he looks at it now, the words almost too faded to read, yet he manages. It’s an address. It takes him two weeks to reach it by car, and he discovers its an two story house, that creaks in the wind, that appears ancient, as though it could topple at any minute. It’s painted a light blue, although chips are peeling off all over. He gives the paper another glance, just has he had once done while searching for a certain psychic.

“What did you get me into, Atticus?” he mutters to himself, before going to the house (he knocks out of habit), and swings the door open.

It’s empty. The way houses look after no one has lived in them for quite sometime. Dusty floors, dead bugs piled on the windowsills. No furniture, but Castiel could imagine with a few couches and maybe some flowers during the summer, it could look rather lovely. Light and wonderful.

He finds the stairwell, and just to make sure, looks at the paper one more time, for those few words scrawled near the bottom.

 

_Upstairs. Last room on the left._

 

So he follows, and walks up, each stair uttering a moan as he passed over them.

He takes his time, not sure what to expect of this. Not sure where Atticus is trying to lead him, even long after her death. _Something for when you’re ready to find peace,_ she had said. Well, he was ready. Always.

He passes by a few rooms, all their doors closed shut, but keeps on going foreword. _Last room on the left,_ he thinks to himself, _last room on the left._

Castiel stops in front of his final destination. The air is still all around him. Silence thundering in his ears, heart racing. He places a hand on the doorknob, trying to breathe slowly.

_When you’re ready to find peace._

He swings the door open. Like when he first saw when he entered this house, the room was mostly barren, and there was dust on the floor. A few details were off, however.

The first one he noticed was the window to his right. It’s thrown open, letting the afternoon’s sunlight flood in, the gentle breeze dancing with the thin, white curtains. He can see the fascinating blue sky from where he stands.

Then there’s the mirror.

It’s off in the far left hand corner, standing tall. Castiel finds his feet moving towards it without his permission, too curious for their own good. Too much in need of peace that he had been lusting after for so long. It’s a beautiful mirror, with engravings of animals and things in metal around the glass that he takes a moment to admire. He glances up, and there is an inscription on top. Castiel reads it, eyes squinting.

 

 

_erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohs i_

 

 

He has to read it a few more times, shifting the letters and the words trying to make sense of this unknown language, until a soft, “Oh,” falls from his lips.

Because it’s not an unknown language. It’s just jumbled.

And his eyes fall to the mirror.

It’s just him, standing there, looking beaten and under the weather as he had ever since 2017. However long ago that was. Clad in jeans, a rugged black t-shirt and a light grey jacket. His hair had seen better days, his cheeks were a bit sunken. Eyes distressed. Hopeless.

_I show not your face—_

It’s when he sees the old woman that he screams.

He spins around, eyes flying, searching for her, but he’s alone. Completely alone, with only the breeze to keep his company. He’s shaking.

If he was alone, then what did he see?

He controls his breathing, a hand over his heart that just won’t seem to calm down, and slowly turns back around. And it stops, for a second.

There’s a woman in the mirror, and he knows her. She’s old. There’s a bundle of blankets pressed into her arms, and he knows them. Had once pressed a kiss to that bundle.

_Name him Dean for me._

Once again, as to make sure, he glances over his shoulder. There is no woman with a baby standing behind him. They only exist in the mirror, in the world of his reflection.

And she’s smiling, and gives a wave of her boney fingers. The baby sees him too, giggles, fists flying about. Castiel is in shock, but he lifts a hand to them, a faint smile trailing over his mouth. It had been so long since that the basket was on the riverbed.

The woman turns to walk away, and Castiel panics. “Wait, wait please!” he cries after her, “Don’t go yet! Please, I know you! Talk with me, stay with me, please!”

_I don’t want to be alone again._

But they go anyways, and Cas feels like bursting into tears. He reaches out to place a hand on the glass, a cool sensation running through his fingertips.

Something else emerges from the foggy distance within the mirror. It’s a blur, at first, a much shorter blur than the old woman, and when the image comes into focus, Cas can’t seem to catch his breath.

“Dean.”

Little Dean Harrison, with messy hair, eyes larger than the moon, and a giddy grin that ate up his face. Behind the boy, wagging a happy tail, is none other than his faithful dog, Missy. And Cas didn’t want to cry, but he did. He did so that the tears became oceans and his body shook like a storm. He kneels beside the mirror, and tries to smile. His reflection follows, glowing.

“Hey, little man,” he says, “Hey, Missy. How’s it going?”

The boy doesn’t respond, just laughs, and Castiel _swears_ he can feel the small tug the child gives on his pants, he swears he can feel it, and that he can hear Missy’s cheerful bark as well. But upon looking down at his side, there’s nothing. Just empty space.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. He doesn’t even know if the people beyond this mirror can hear him, but he tries anyways. “I’m so sorry, little one. I should have been there for you. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you. You should have lived a much more fulfilling life. Taken all the years I had gone and wasted wanting to die.”

He stands back up, and Dean is gone. A part of Cas can hear him laughing somewhere.

Another figure comes up beside him. Tall, with long hair, hazel eyes, wearing a kind smile.

“Sam,” Cas chokes, and he can barely contain himself. He sobs into his hands as Sam slings an arm across his shoulders, and the familiar weight that he hasn’t felt in so long feels real. So real, and he realizes just how much he missed that weight, missed that face.

“Oh, Sam,” he weeps to the mirror, “I should have been a better friend. I left you, and I should’ve been there for you and your family and I left because I thought you didn’t need me, but you did, you did…”

Sam only rubs his hand along Cas’ arm, giving it a tight squeeze, as to reassure him that it’s truly okay. That it was going to be okay.

Slowly Sam backs away, and Castiel is alone again, the only sounds being rustling curtains and his whimpers. He tries desperately to wipe them away, to breathe, that he was fine and everything would be fine.

And then, Dean stands beside him.

 _His_ Dean.

Exactly how he remembers him. That bit of stubble on his jawline. Blond hair that shone in the light pouring in, reflecting brightly like the sun in all its glory. Those two green eyes that made Cas’ heart soar, that had seen so much bad in the world and deserved so much good. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled big and laughed.

And Castiel can’t even say hello. His heart is busy flying somewhere else, and his lips just won’t move.

So Dean does it for him.

 _Hey, Cas,_ he mouths, and a sad smile perks on Cas’ lips, and he’s finally able to find the words.

“I miss you,” he says to the reflection, and Dean chuckles.

_I can tell._

He stands behind Cas, and he comes up close to him, carefully wrapping his arms around the angel’s waist, and Cas gasps. Because like the tug of a small child or the weight of Sam’s arm, it feels real. It feels like he’s there. Dean. His Dean. The man who saved the world. The man he loved.

Dean presses a kiss to Castiel’s neck, and Cas allows his eyes to flutter shut, just to take in the sensation. He’s afraid that when he opens them that Dean will have disappeared like the others, but he hasn’t moved at all. He’s still there, holding Cas to him, chest to back.

_**I’ve missed you too.** _

They stand there for what seems like forever, not moving, Dean occasionally mouthing something and Cas would read the way his lips formed the words, like water forming land, and he would remember the way his voice sounded. The roughness, the way it could be kind and angry and passionate and a million other things that Cas fell in love with. They just stand there, and Cas never wants to leave. The sun moves its way across the sky, and shadows stretch across the floorboards.

“Where are you, Dean?” he asks, and the reflection smirks.

 _Somewhere good,_ he responds. _Somewhere like home._

“Home,” Cas says. “That sounds wonderful.”

_I wish you were here._

“Yeah. Me too.” Cas huffs a breath, wanting so badly to just touch Dean, who’s right behind him, bodies pressed together, and he can feel Dean’s breath on his shoulder, and he just wants to turn and embrace him and cry because they were finally together again, and he wanted to kiss him and tell him how much he loved him, but he can’t. He can’t.

Because it’s not real.

None of it is. It’s all a pretend game, like the ones children would play with one another a long time ago. It wasn’t real.

Yet he wanted nothing more than to be a simple child, with a simple mind, and pretend. To let it all come to life, even if it were only in his head.

“I love you,” Cas whispers. And Dean looks at him, smiling softly with hooded eyes. He leans closer to Castiel’s ear. And Cas hears it. Impossibly loud and impossibly clear and impossibly real.

_I love you. Forever._

And Cas can’t help but to cry again, and Dean holds him tighter.

 _Where do you wanna go?_ Dean asks. _What do you wanna do now?_

And Cas looks him in the eye, and holds his gaze for a long while, barely blinking.

“I want to go home, Dean,” he whispers. “I want to go home with you… Take me home…”

Dean closes his eyes.

 _Okay_.

And then there’s nothing.

Just empty space.

 

The End

_I show not your face but your heart’s desires_

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired to write this after a friend sent me a post from Tumblr, which originally was about Dean looking into the Mirror and seeing Cas. I began to wonder what Cas would see, and this is how the story came about.
> 
> The title, "Undimmed By Time, Unbound By Death," comes from a track off of the "Oblivion" soundtrack. It's my favourite score to listen to while writing, and the song fit the Mirror scene almost too perfectly.
> 
> Atticus was an original character that I invented for a book I'm working on, although in that piece she prefers the name Exodus. She shows up in most of my writings, as a Time Traveller, a psychic, and a few other things.
> 
> If any of you follow my story "Safe & Sound," and are wondering why I have yet to post a new chapter, I took a bit of time off just to note down two ficlets. The next chapter will be updated soon, hopefully.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed reading this story as I have enjoyed writing it and creating it. It's vague and I wrote it in five days, but I think it's a pretty okay piece on my part.
> 
> \- Marina


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